Dream of Red and Yellow
by Kamarile
Summary: FF6. Late at night, Gogo has an odd conversation....


People are such fickle things. Always they are afraid. I have seen them fear the most utterly irrelevant things. See how that one twists in its sheets, occupied with one of what they call 'dreams'. The look on its face is close to the one they use when they flee from a foe that is far too strong for them; they call that 'afraid', and so that is the word I use. I am not curious, but if I were I would wonder what they dream about that makes them twist when they are unconcious, and make that face which I can make, too, but not comprehend in the slightest.  
  
People are such misguided things. Why must they comvince themselves so utterly that they are not exactly the same? See this unconcious person, this sleeper. Its hair may be a conspicuous shade of green, but a kerchief would conceal the fact that it wasn't the twin of one's own. And this one with marks and lines across its face. What keeps my hidden face from being unlike his? That is what a veil does. It hides, it shelters, it *empowers*.  
  
Once, in a time and place that is irrelevant, a person asked me: "Will you ever show me your face?"  
  
"Why would I need to?" I asked it.  
  
"You wouldn't need to," the person said. "I'd like you to."  
  
"What purpose would it serve?" I asked it again.  
  
"I think," it said oddly, "That you might be someone I know..."  
  
"I might be," I told it, and that was all.   
  
People like that tire me, and all people are like that, forever prying, forever foolish, forever fearful. The other person here in the room, the juvenile, is typical of people. Wakeful, it stays, wakeful and energetic and human. "You're still up, Gogo?" it pipes. Why must people ask questions to which they already know the answers?  
  
I tell it yes, I am, and that it is evident.  
  
The juvenile laughs and moves its hands.  
  
"No," I tell it. "No drawing."  
  
"Aw!" says the juvenile. "I wasn't going to hurt you or anything! Geez! Can't I even draw just for fun anymore?!"  
  
"No drawing," I tell it.  
  
"I was drawing *you*."  
  
"That's what I'd like to avoid," I tell it.  
  
But it persists. "You're very fun to draw, Gogo. Especially with color. But I don't have any paints, so I'll just have to sketch."  
  
"I'm terribly sorry, pictomancer," I tell it.  
  
"Those... things you wear. They're awesome!"  
  
"Thank you," I say.  
  
It moves closer to the edge of its bed, towards me. "You know, they're just the color of mine." It points to the shirt and pants and bonnet it wears.  
  
"That they are," I say.  
  
"And grandpa's."  
  
"Yes," I say.  
  
"And Kefka's too....."  
  
"We are all very much alike, you know. All of us."  
  
"Are you a mage then? Like us?"  
  
"I am not a mage. I am a mimic."  
  
"But that's a *kind* of mage, isn't it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Then... "Why do you wear things that are so bright, Gogo?"  
  
Why? Is it asking me why? I am always the one to ask why, and the one to know why as well. "What do you mean, pictomancer?"  
  
It moves its shoulders up and then lets them fall down. "Why? You could wear anything. You could wear all black like Shadow. Or even a green bikini like Celes," she laughs, "You could be *invisible* if you wanted to be. Why do you wear red and yellow and green?"  
  
"Why do you care?" I ask it.  
  
It makes the movement with its shoulders again. I shall have to remember that. "I draw pictures. I see colors. I wonder."  
  
People, always wondering, always always ALWAYS the same. Why NOT pale, why NOT dark.... why red? yellow? green?  
  
I look at those colors on the juvenile now. There it sits on the bed, little hands clutching a little notepad... a heap of armor and knives at the foot of the bed, far too big for it, but its nonetheless. Those colors look well on the juvenile.  
  
"I don't know why," I tell the pictomancer. "But... they're very bright..."  
  
The juvenile nods and as it drifts off into unconciousness, into sleep, I regard the people in the beds around me, and imagine their faces behind a veil like mine. See how they dream without their veils on. Maybe if I took mine off, just for tonight, I might see them too...  
  
But I can't.  
  
And so I mimic their sleep, mimic their silence, mimic in an attempt to see what they see. And I dream of red... and yellow... and green...  
  
  
THE END 


End file.
